


It Was All Right There In Front of Him  (A Five Times Plus One Story)

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grooming, M/M, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Sleeping Together, observations on relationships, relationship, sharing food, water rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Greg Lestrade is a good detective. But sometimes he doesn't trust the evidence in front of him, until there's a compelling reason to do so.</p><p>Thank you to Elainasaunt for her sharp eyes (and the prod to write this!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was All Right There In Front of Him  (A Five Times Plus One Story)

**One: Angelo's Italian Bistro**

There are times when Greg Lestrade really resents Sherlock Holmes horning in on his cases. Like all the times when Greg and his team have done weeks of legwork interviewing witnesses, analysing crime scene photos and evidence, and running down leads and suspects until they're half blind with fatigue and frustration only to have Sherlock swan into the incident room, glance at the exhibits board and announce in that seriously annoying, off-handed way of his who was responsible and why they had done it, connecting the chain of events in such a way that it seemed a mentally deficient cocker spaniel could have sussed the culprit if only it had been given a good sniff of his trouser leg and a dog biscuit.

But there were other times, like now, when the Chief Super and the press were baying in tandem for either a result or blood – these days Greg was pretty sure that they'd be placated as long as they got one or the other – and the public, God help him, was signing internet petitions and sending them to the Lord Mayor demanding that _something,_ be done at once. Thinking of internet petitions made him long nostalgically for the days when the most a member of the public might do was send a strongly worded letter to _The Times_. At least those had some use. He could drain his chips on those. Petitions had an annoying tendency to go viral, and then people from all over the world started sticking their oars in when he needed it least, clogging phone lines and in-boxes with useless chaff and pet theories.

In such fraught times Greg was far more willing to invite London's most notorious sleuth into his incident room, and sometimes when his frustrations were running high enough he even went out of his way to drag him there, by the collar if necessary, to talk over cases, which is why, after calling and texting and getting no reply, he had tracked the detective down to Angelo's.

There, the owner and head waiter pointed Greg to a table tucked away in the back of the little restaurant. He nodded his thanks and then rather than charging straight over to lay out his problem, paused to give himself a minute to breathe and centre. He'd been on his feet for a good eighteen hours by that point and the smell of food, something he couldn't remember indulging in himself since the day before – unless he counted the dry bread filled with mystery meat that purported to be a sandwich (and he didn't) that he'd consumed in the car between crime scenes several hours ago – was driving him to distraction. 

In point of fact, Greg was reasonably sure he was starting to hallucinate.

Sherlock and John were definitely sitting at a small, candlelit table, laughing over some private joke. There were demitasse-sized coffee cups on the table and elaborate slices of cake set in front of both men. Of all these things, Greg was certain.

But then Sherlock loaded his fork with a bit of cake and waved it in the air as he and John traded half-smiles and suggestive eyebrow waggles. Finally, John leant forward, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. Greg blinked as John chewed and his expression became ecstatic. Sherlock's face transformed as he revelled in John's pleasure. But it seemed he wasn't quite finished yet.

Greg watched, feeling increasingly perplexed. There were rules for sharing food with mates. There were other rules for sharing food with potential bedmates. In the first case you were supposed to put a small portion on a clean plate, or possibly on the other person's plate, and let them try it for themselves. In the second, you did what Sherlock had just done; feeding the bite of food carefully to your intended, accidentally on purpose using too much sauce or cream and then ...

Sherlock reached over and carefully wiped a bit of creamy icing away with the pad of his thumb. John's eyelids drifted closed during the brief contact, as if it had been as pleasurable an experience as tasting the cake.

Certain he was reading something into the situation that wasn't really there, Greg shook himself out of his stupor and hurried across the restaurant.

**Two: 221B Baker Street: Tuesday Morning**

Greg hurried up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat. Lately it seems he's always on the hop and he wonders why he's been summoned so early in the morning. There are several strong scents on the air as he enters the living room. Coffee and bacon and toasting bread are amongst them and his stomach growls, as usual there hadn't been time for breakfast.

But there's another, less pleasant aroma. A chemical scent that invokes an unhappy memory. In fact, his skin crawls in response to the smell.

One of the kitchen chairs had been shifted to rest in front of the lit fireplace. Sherlock sits upon it. He is bare to the waist and a towel is wrapped around his hips. His hair is wet and strands hangs limply from his scalp in bedraggled waves. It's from Sherlock that the unpleasant chemical smell emanates.

John stands over Sherlock. His expression is placid, that is right until he catches sight of his quarry, and then his gaze sharpens like a hunter's as he wields the nit comb he's holding in his right hand.

"Good morning, Lestrade." Sherlock tips his head towards the kitchen and John pushes it gently back into position before resuming his hunt. "Help yourself to breakfast. I'm afraid we'll have to talk while John works." 

"You've only brought this on yourself, you know," John teases. There's very little malice in his tone and a fair bit of affection. He glances up at Lestrade with a puckish expression. "The Great Detective decided that haunting low dives wasn't noir enough to ferret out your suspect. So he picked one that was both low and vermin infested." Explanation of how he came to be picking nits from Sherlock's scalp completed, John goes back to pursuing lice and their offspring.

"As you well know, that's not entirely accurate, John."

Sherlock raises his head to protest and John pushes it back down again with a firm hand. If it wasn't for the memories associated with the treatment in Sherlock's hair, Greg thinks watching him get put so firmly in his place would be funny.

But there are memories, and they're less than pleasant. Greg had lice himself as a boy. His father had been disgusted, shaving Greg's hair down to the scalp after applications of special insecticidal shampoo and visits by the nit nurse had failed to solve the problem. He recalls sitting in the kitchen, much as Sherlock is now, with his head bowed and a towel covering his skinny shoulders to keep off the draft. But where John is being gentle, first running his fingers through Sherlock's scalp as if he were giving a relaxing massage and then applying the comb, carefully lifting away the nits and lice, Greg's mum had been rough. She'd tugged and pulled with the comb, giving vent to her humiliation that a child of hers should have become infected, until tears sprang to his eyes and Greg felt humiliated too. Even though every kid in class had been similarly afflicted, she'd taken it as a personal failing, and so, God help her, had Greg's dad. They'd both suffered for it.

Later, ensconced behind his desk again, Greg reflects on the care and consideration John had taken with Sherlock. He recalls the gentle, yet decisive movements of John's fingers as he had searched for lice. The way his fingers had occasionally drifted to Sherlock's nape or shoulders, offering unspoken comfort as he had worked. And how close and relaxed the pair had been in such a highly personal situation, and it made him wonder.

**Three: Out on the Thames**

It had the makings of a monumental cock-up, hiding on the boat amongst crates of electronics and hoping that Myers and his men wouldn't notice a bunch of coppers and a pain in the arse private detective until it was too late. But damn the man, he'd been as slippery as an eel and had managed to avoid being captured enough times it was not only embarrassing, but getting hard to explain to the Chief Super.

Amazingly, the plan had worked and Greg finally had a pair of cuffs on Marty Myers, suspected chief architect of a series of bloody gangland killings that had caught a dozen civilians in its crossfire. They were headed back to the quay. Police vans were waiting to meet them. All they had to do was get the villains back to Scotland Yard for processing and they'd be home and dry.

It was at that point, when he was on the verge of relaxing, that things went tits up. Tommo, Marty's little brother, decided he was going to make a break for it. Tommo was little by years, but not by bulk. He was six foot four and easily weighed twenty stone, all of which was muscle. He roared. And then he took John with him, more by accident than design, as he barrelled overboard.

There was a stunned moment of silence and then pandemonium as coppers made sure no other villains took it into their heads to go for a swim and Sherlock shed his coat and kicked off his shoes, following the pair into the water.

He ignored Tommo's flailing attempts to dog paddle despite having bound wrists. John was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone straight down into the depths of the river, stunned or knocked unconscious by the impact with a human freight train.

Sherlock emerged again just long enough to take a deep breath before he whipped sodden hair out of his eyes. He jackknifed, over and over again, into the freezing water, searching frantically. He went down for a long time, long enough for the constables who didn't have prisoners in charge to do the things one was meant to do when someone went overboard: deploy life rings and floatation devices, and strip off their stab vests, before diving in to help with the rescue. Finally, Sherlock appeared, sucking air into his depleted lungs. He held John clutched in his arms, and John looked more like a department store mannequin than a man.

Greg was the first one at the rail, leaning down to pull John out of Sherlock's arms and begin rescue breathing. He slapped John hard between the shoulder blades repeatedly until he vomited water onto the deck. And then Sherlock was back, despite his obvious fatigue, pushing Greg out of the way so that he would be the first one John saw when he opened his eyes. Sherlock looked down into John's face, smiling, despite the tears that mingled with the river water running down his cheeks. He took John's hands between his own and chafed them gently, warming them as John roused his way slowly back to consciousness.

John was shivering. So was Sherlock. Carefully, as if Sherlock were a child, Greg helped them both to their feet and out of the wind. Someone produced a flask of hot, sweet tea. In the pilot's cabin the pair of them huddled together, John wrapped protectively in Sherlock's arms as they shared the cup between them. Sherlock kept fussing with his greatcoat. Pulling it up underneath John's chin wasn't enough. He kept tucking the edges around his body, so there was no chance of a stray draft getting through to exacerbate John's shivers.

Once they got to shore it was Sherlock who overrode John's protests and insisted he get into the ambulance, supervising the paramedics until he was in danger of being barred. Sherlock backed off, but only long enough to give Tommo Myers a venomous look as he was loaded into an ambulance of his own. 

Though it pained him to do so, Greg assigned extra constables to keep an eye on Tommo. Not because he was afraid of him making another break for it, but because he had seen the murderous rage in Sherlock's face and he was afraid of what Sherlock might do given half a chance.

**Four: Lotus Blossom Chinese Takeaway**

It was late, but as usual, there was still work to be done. Greg pulled up in front of the takeaway and beeped his horn to let Sherlock and John know he'd arrived.

Sherlock had his head down, his fingers flying over his mobile. The queue shuffled forward. John said something to Sherlock, which was evidently ignored because he tried again, this time adding a shoulder nudge for emphasis. Then he waved and pointed at his watch, letting Greg know they'd just be a minute.

Sherlock kept texting.

Greg knew of several reasons Sherlock might be glued to his mobile, but only one really explained his single-minded focus. He was involved in a battle of words with his brother Mycroft, and pausing mid-argument was tantamount to defeat.

Honestly, he thought. Those two are as stubborn as each other.

As Sherlock and John reached the front counter, John's expression became resigned. He spoke to the counterman, his smile apologetic, and then reached into the inside breast pocket of Sherlock's greatcoat and extracted his wallet. He shuffled through it, as comfortably as if it were his own, and then, card in hand, completed the transaction at the chip and pin reader.

The counterman said nothing during the exchange. It was clearly something he was familiar with. Still, Greg thought, it was another example of how more and more often of late, Sherlock and John reminded him less of two individuals and more like two halves of a whole.

**Five: The Old Bailey**

They'd done it. After months of preparation, the Myers case was finally getting its day in court. Greg was nervous. So far everything had gone like clockwork. The CPS was making strong arguments. The defence was offering minimal rebuttals. And the judge and jury seemed sympathetic to the police. But that didn't stop him from getting a knot in his stomach the size of a football because today Sherlock was due to testify, and that was always an iffy proposition. Sherlock had an annoying tendency to flout courtroom etiquette, getting himself in trouble and jeopardising cases by irritating judges and juries alike.

After searching what felt like half the common areas, Greg finally caught up with Sherlock in the toilets reserved for court officials. Both relieved and annoyed, he was all set to deliver a proper bollocking, but what he saw as he entered left him feeling a bit stunned, so he shut his mouth and watched instead.

Sherlock wasn't alone. He was with John and John was busy straightening Sherlock's collar. The pair were completely absorbed in one another; John tugging the expensive cotton fabric this way and that until at last he was satisfied with the way it lay against the severely tailored black jacket that hugged Sherlock's narrow frame like a shadow. Sherlock was making a show of being irritated by John's fussing, yet it was clear he was enjoying it at the same time. Especially as once the collar was straightened to John's satisfaction, he ran his palms over the front of the jacket, smoothing the fabric with slow, deliberate strokes. Finally, John picked a small bit of something, lint or maybe a hair, off of Sherlock's shoulder and flicked it away.

Greg cleared his throat, alerting the pair to his presence. "You're up next."

"Right," Sherlock said. He gave John a small, polite smile. "Thank you, John. I believe I'll pass muster now."

"You looked like you got dressed in the dark. I didn't want the judge thinking you weren't taking matters seriously, rolling out of bed just in time to give testimony." A defensive tone coloured John's reply.

"It would take more than a crooked collar to change their opinion there, I'm afraid," Greg said. "Sherlock's already got a reputation."

John's back went stiff, and Greg couldn't help notice how frosty the normally mild-mannered doctor's expression became. Then John glanced up at Sherlock and he shrugged. "Then we had better make sure he doesn't blacken it further." He tipped his head towards the door and the courtroom beyond. "Come on, Sherlock. And remember what we talked about in the taxi." 

Greg trailed behind the pair as they headed towards the courtroom. It wasn't uncommon for John to speak to Sherlock like he was a child, because frankly, sometimes he behaved like one and deserved it. But there wasn't anything parent-like in the way John had tenderly stroked the lapels of Sherlock's jacket. Or in the way John had looked up at Sherlock with an expression of pure admiration as he studied the effect of his primping.

**Six: 221B Baker Street, (again)**

Despite not yet seeing him this morning, Mrs Hudson was certain Sherlock was in. But as Greg looked around the public areas of the flat there was no sign of the detective in his usual favourite haunts. He wasn't reclining on the sofa in a desultory pose. Nor was he perched in his favourite chair meditating like a brooding eagle or lounging, cup in hand, over breakfast. Tentatively, Greg called out, but the flat continued to radiate the same sense of quiet tranquillity it had since his entrance.

The lads must still be asleep, Greg thought to himself. He sighed. One case had been successfully put to bed, but not before another began its ticking clock, driving him and his team to distraction with the complexities of man's inhumanity to man. Though it pained him to admit it, once again he was over-matched by a combination of criminal ingenuity and public outcry. He used his policeman's knock on Sherlock's bedroom door.

Sherlock was in bed, asleep, splayed out across the mattress like a starfish. His naked back was exposed, and his lightly freckled skin contrasted sharply with the bright white of his sheets. On the desk was an empty bottle of Bollinger champagne tipped over on its side. It rested next to two mismatched champagne flutes, also empty.

He wasn't alone. Tucked under Sherlock's right arm, his face buried between two pillows, lay John. He was slumbering just as heavily as Sherlock was, but it seemed the loud knocking had at least partially penetrated his consciousness. He stretched, and rolled over onto his side, shifting Sherlock as he did so until they were resting in each other's arms.

Hastily, Greg backed out of the room. He shut the door firmly and then knocked again loudly before going to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

He suddenly felt a great and compelling need for a nice, comforting cup of tea as months of recollections fit themselves together like pieces of a jigsaw: John fussing over Sherlock. Sherlock's murderous protection of John. Their ease in one another's company, even when they were at loggerheads.

They were a couple.

And he, a trained detective, had totally failed to notice.

end


End file.
